“I’ve thought about it. ‘What do you mean?’ Gerald grinned. It might prove rewarding. I wrote three letters yesterday and tore them up. It was a gray day in the spring of 1910. “Which one?” “The one whose life you have been making a burden, who has been all the time shielding her sister. She could not go to him with a preachment against strong drink; she knew from experience that such a plan would be wasted effort. That world of fine printed cambrics and escorted maidens, of delicate secondary meanings and refined allusiveness, presented itself to her imagination with the brightness of a lost paradise, as indeed for many women it is a lost paradise. ‘What in God’s name is going on?’ Glancing swiftly towards the doorway, Gerald saw his friend’s disbelieving face and burst out, speaking over the top of Melusine as she made another grab for the little square of linen.
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